


Insult to Injury

by leici



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 22:04:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2244966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leici/pseuds/leici
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wanted Todd to put his hands on him, wanted Todd to kiss him, wanted Todd to make him forget. Wanted Todd.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Insult to Injury

**Author's Note:**

> I decided I wanted to write about Troy's freak hand injury and it started out exactly as I planned, but then went kinda... another direction. But I think it worked out? Maybe?
> 
> Written July 2008.

He regretted it the instant he did it, even half a second before he felt the bat come apart in his hands and the shearing pain told him he was going to pay for his loss of temper. Dearly.  
  
Endorphins flooded immediately, and he felt all the power and adrenaline of his rage funnel into fear as he peeled his fist open to see the damage done. Jagged across his palm, the cut opened deep and bled thickly, the pulse of his rapidly beating heart sending rivulets of red down over his wrist, pooling in the crease of his elbow and spattering the tiled floor.  
  
Panic. He  _knew better_. His hands, his body, his livelihood. Never hit anything in anger, he'd been told, over and over drilled into his head. His hands were everything, his arms and legs, his lungs, his health. Frozen for far too long, somehow having fallen to his knees, he struggled to his feet, cleats sliding in the mess left behind.  
  
He had to fix it.  
  
And then, strong arms helping him stand, one rough hand around his wrist, holding his injured paw away and up to try and stem the blood flow, guided into the trainers' room. Todd, sitting him down on a table and going for a towel, pressing the terry into the hollow of his palm before going out, and bringing someone back to take care of him.  
  
Tulo didn't see Todd again until much later, stitched and bandaged, his ego and pride hurting more than the laceration ever did. He knew he'd have to talk to Clint, he'd have to fess up to throwing a temper tantrum, and apologize. He hadn't been angry with his manager, but it would look that way. He hadn't been throwing a fit like a child. He was a man, dammit, and frustrated with himself.  
  
Todd came in first, and Tulo knew Clint had sent him. It wasn't comforting. He felt humiliated and guilty and, worst of all, stupid. He wanted to tell Todd to go away, he didn't need a pep talk before he saw Clint, and he didn't need a lecture. But he was in enough hot water as it was, and so he kept his mouth smartly shut.  
  
"Unlucky," Todd said, sitting in the chair next to Tulo on the same side of Clint's desk.  
  
Tulo almost laughed. Unlucky. Todd had said that to him so many times. Unlucky was when the wind caught a drive to make it fall short, or when the second baseman managed a dive to cutoff a base hit. Or, sometimes, unlucky was even a bad bounce that caused a ground ball to get past Tulo into the outfield. This, it wasn't unlucky. It was instant karma. It was Tulo getting what he deserved.  
  
"No it wasn't." His tone was subdued, but held the strength if his dignity. He was ready to take responsibility.  
  
"Sure it was." Todd didn't turn his eyes on Tulo, just sat at his side, looking forward at Clint's unoccupied desk. "You try that a hundred more times, the bat won't break."  
  
"But it did break." Tulo could feel himself starting to get worked up, and he wished Todd would stop talking before he got himself into any more trouble.  
  
Todd shrugged. "I know. And that sucks. But it could have happened to anyone."  
  
Tulo's back went ramrod straight, and he fisted his left hand, willing himself to be calm. "It didn't. It happened to me. I made the stupid mistake, I'm letting the team down-"  
  
"Yeah, I know. It's all about you." Todd's voice was frustratingly even, and his expression far too cool. Tulo almost wanted to punch him. "Look, kid, you know you're not the first person to do something like this. And you know you're not going to be the last. But if you spend the next two weeks moaning about how sorry you are and how bad you feel, you're going to drive the rest of us crazy."  
  
"But I  _am_  sorry," Tulo began, but Todd waved him off.  
  
"We know you are. Hell, we all feel the same way you do about this team and the way we're playing. Shit like this happens sometimes. Shake it off, get better, then get back out there."  
  
Tulo clenched his teeth, his jaw flexing. Todd had a way of making everything sound so damn simple all the time. It made Tulo insane. He had half a thought to tell Todd so, but then he felt Todd's fingers slide along the back of his neck, kneading the muscles there.  
  
"Relax. Everything is going to be fine."  
  
Todd's touch and Todd's voice routinely reduced Tulo to ashes. Eyes drooping, he breathed, "Todd..."  
  
"Not here," Todd replied, though he brushed his thumb through the edge of Tulo's hair before he drew his hand away, an intimate gesture. "You talk to Clint, I'll be in the lot."  
  
With that, Todd stood, turning and exiting the room without a backward glance. Tulo didn't watch him go, but that didn't keep his pulse from speeding, the throb of it pushing up against the sutures in the palm of his hand, dull and warm and not quite pain. He cooled quickly when his manager came in, snapping the door shut behind him.  
  
The conversation was short. Clint didn't mince words, and he didn't waste time. There was the lecture, the reminder of how many zeros were on the end of Tulo's salary, and then the barely veiled threat that Barmes and Quintanilla and Stewart and Baker would all love a starting infield roster spot. Once that was out of the way, he got the sympathetic ear, and the empathetic story of back when Clint was in the Majors, tales of the stupid things  _he'd_ done. It was like being punished by a stern grandfather, and he was sent out of the room with a figurative slap on the wrist. He'd have to give his own press conference, but otherwise he was off the hook.  
  
Todd was waiting for him in the parking lot, leaning up against his SUV, noisily chomping on a piece of pink bubble gum. Todd always chewed gum after games, and Tulo figured it was for Christy's benefit, though he never asked. As soon as Todd caught sight of him, he pushed himself away from the car. "How'd it go?" he asked.  
  
Tulo shrugged. "Fine."  
  
"So no laundry duty or anything while you're getting better, huh?"  
  
Todd's smile occasionally had the same incendiary results as his voice. "No. I have to lead the presser tomorrow, though."  
  
"Ouch," Todd said, wincing appropriately. "You have fun with that."  
  
Nine times out of ten, Tulo would have come up with some sort of smart ass reply. But the other times, the ones like this, he didn't say anything at all. Because he didn't want to joke with Todd. He wanted Todd to put his hands on him, wanted Todd to kiss him, wanted Todd to make him forget. Wanted Todd.  
  
"Don't look at me like that."  
  
Tulo knew it was off limits here, in Denver. At home, Todd was Christy's husband and Tierney's father. The lines were very clearly drawn.  
  
"You started it," Tulo pointed out, though his voice was low, concession at the back of his throat.  
  
"You're right," Todd admitted, glancing around them for a moment before reaching out to cup the back of Tulo's skull, tugging the shortstop to him. "I did."  
  
Todd's kisses skipped the ash stage and went straight to molten lava. His beard was rough, his lips strong, his mouth wet and hot. It tasted like making out with cotton candy that had been dropped in the middle of an interstate, the gum doing a pretty rotten job of concealing hours worth of tobacco chewing.  
  
Tulo didn't care. In fact, the combination of bubble gum and tobacco turned him on, thanks to moments like this one. It definitely made being in the dugout interesting sometimes.  
  
Tulo also didn't care that the more he did this, the longer he let Todd kiss him this way, the worse it would be when Todd left him to go home to his wife. Todd's fingers slipped up the back of his head, brushing through his close cropped hair, tongue pushing deep. Tulo arched his hips forward, wanting contact there, needing to feel if Todd was as hard as he was.  
  
But Todd leaned away, pulling out of Tulo's mouth at the same time. "Don't, Troy."  
  
Tulo pressed his lips up against Todd's as he replied, speaking right into Todd's mouth. "I just want to feel you."  
  
"Not here," Todd repeated his earlier warning, putting a few inches of space between them. "You know that."  
  
Tulo's voice was a low growl, his words bordering on insubordination. " _You_  started it. And I know we can't  _do_ anything about it, but I just..." Tulo made a frustrated sound, dropping the volume of his voice even further. "I want to know I'm not the only one who wants to."  
  
Todd's expression was hard, dark eyes set, and Tulo figured he'd pushed his luck a little too far. But then Todd reached out abruptly and grabbed Tulo's uninjured left hand, pressing it flat against his groin, cupping Tulo's fingers over the hard ridge of his erection. "Happy?"  
  
Tulo swore under his breath, managing to curl his fingers around the girth of Todd's cock for half a second before Todd pulled his hand away. "I want you," Tulo blurted, and the sound of his voice echoed around the parking lot.  
  
Todd cringed. "Shut up," he hissed, looking around to see who might have heard. "I know. But we can't.  _You_  know that."  
  
Tulo's mouth flattened into a frown, but he nodded, crossing his arms carefully over his chest, bandaged right hand resting against his left elbow.  
  
"It'll be okay," Todd said, as if that fixed everything. "Go home and get some sleep. I'll see you here tomorrow."  
  
Tulo nodded again. He knew he was pouting, but he was hard and lonely and pissed off at himself and his hand hurt and he wanted to go home  _with Todd_  and not get any sleep at all. Todd smiled at him, and he wanted to punch Todd in the face. Instead, he forced himself to smile back.  
  
He watched Todd drive away before he got into the driver's seat of his own car, cursing his stupid need to be macho and get the standard transmission in his Maserati. But there was no way he was going back inside to ask for a ride, not as raw as he felt. He managed to make it home, shifting with his bandaged hand, and it wasn't all that hard to get undressed, even with all the gauze and wrapping and swollen fingers.  
  
He was surprisingly good with his left hand, when he needed to be. Or maybe it was just the built up frustration that made it so easy. His left hand, Todd's left hand, Todd's touch and voice and smile and taste, Todd's name in ragged syllables on his lips.  
  
Each one of his palms filled with different kinds of shame.


End file.
